A Touch of Cinnamon
by dudeurfugly
Summary: A container of cinnamon sticks leads Emma and Jefferson into a heartfelt conversation.


**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Just having fun.**

**A/N: This started out as a simple fluffy/romantic oneshot and morphed into something else. Enjoy!**

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Emma awakens to the sunshine spilling its warm golden-orange rays across the pillows. The first thing she sees is him, Jefferson, still asleep at her side. One arm is draped above his head, the other is tucked underneath the expanse of down pillows. Her eyes travel from the sunlight peeking through his unkempt hair and pause, momentarily, at the ribbon-like scar around his neck. She remembers the feel of it beneath her fingertips while he watched her trace the pattern marred into his skin, both of their minds racing, bodies flushed. She wanted to ask him so many things then but even now she finds herself afraid of what the answers might be. She lies there in his bed wondering, as always, what this is, how it ever began, and where it's going to go. Most importantly, Emma contemplates whether or not to stay.

Usually, she flees with nothing but a hastily written letter left on his bedside table, some sorry excuse she doesn't really mean. She leaves the guilt for later. It's always been her natural response, her best defense, and she damns him for drawing her back in over and over again. Emma doesn't know how to do this—this relationship thing—and she's terrified most of all that she is reciprocating everything Jefferson feels for her. She's trying not to let her carefully built walls crumble under his strong, capable hands, but the worst thing is she _likes_ it. Emma craves it. She isn't certain of what this is—goodness knows that four letter word is frightening, and although it's poked at her mind more than once in the past several months, she always fights it off—but right now, she doesn't want it to stop.

So, she stays.

Emma decides to get up and let Jefferson sleep. Pulling the sheet back, she slides out of bed and stretches with a soft yawn. She gathers up his shirt from the floor and slips it on, not caring enough to locate her own clothes. She buttons it as she walks out of the room and down the hallway to the staircase, all the while her mind wandering to possible explanations she could give Mary Margaret that did not involve Jefferson's name. Emma descends the stairs and takes in the quiet expanse of home—because for the first time, it is _really_ silent and she's not tiptoeing out the door. In the several minutes it takes her to get from the bottom of the stairs across the lower level to the kitchen, Emma realizes just how lonely this place can be.

She understands, with a certain clarity, why Jefferson always asks her to stick around if only for a few extra minutes.

Emma suddenly feels guilty.

The kitchen is sterile and modern, all hues of white and grayscale, sleek lines and angles. Emma is more familiar with it than she feels comfortable admitting to herself; by now, she's explored every room and hallway in this mansion. The glimpses of domesticity it brings is something she's still getting used to. It's odd for Emma, who has never spent large amounts of time in one location (except for her sentence served in jail, but she'd rather push those memories aside), to cope with the fact that she now has two houses to occupy whenever she wants.

Houses but never _homes_. Emma isn't used to that word, either. It implies things like attachment, and family, and love. Maybe one day she will learn that those words do have meanings and the people in her life are trying to show her them, but today is not that day.

Emma moves about the kitchen collecting ingredients, silently thanking Ruby for Granny's secret recipe for hot chocolate. She puts a saucepan of water on the stove, flames from the gas burners flickering to life to heat the liquid up. Stirring, she adds in a mixture of cocoa powder (which she finds, surprisingly, in a mason jar on top of the counter, fresh), sugar, and salt. She pours in some milk and keeps stirring, only pausing to push up the sleeves of Jefferson's shirt. Emma turns off the burner and lets the mixture rest for a moment before dropping in a dash of vanilla. She's not too bothered to look for the measuring spoons so she judges by estimation.

She reaches up on tiptoe to the cabinet full of china cups, saucers, and ceramic mugs. What she finds there brings her to a halt, breath catching in her throat. Emma doesn't know why she's all of a sudden so tripped up by the sight of a container of cinnamon sticks, but it renders her slack-jawed. Emma knows Jefferson doesn't use cinnamon. He swears by tea, of course, and won't touch coffee. After the tea drugging debacle (which Emma tries so hard to forget but sometimes can't), Emma won't drink tea, at least in Jefferson's house. She has gotten him to drink hot chocolate whenever she makes it on those cold, rainy afternoons, but he's never had cinnamon in his cupboard.

Emma doesn't quite know what to make of this. She removes the container from the cupboard and settles her bare feet flat to the hardwood floor. Flicking open the top of the translucent jar, she breathes in the aroma of the pungent spice. It absorbs her senses and reminds her of Mary Margaret and Henry. She thinks that maybe the scent of cinnamon is what home is supposed to feel like. It's a thought that makes her heart race and her head spin.

As she's pulling a mug from the cupboard, Emma hears footsteps in the doorway of the kitchen. She turns her head to find a groggy-looking Jefferson, his usually coifed hair disheveled and wearing nothing but a pair of black skinny jeans. His mouth upturns in that slow grin that tends to make Emma's knees grow weak and her cheeks warm. Emma realizes she's staring at his exposed chest and the scar that winds around his neck longer than she means to and focuses on scooping the hot chocolate into her mug. She doesn't know why she's being so chaste—it's not like they hadn't laid their bodies and souls bare last night and not for the first time—but Emma supposes it is the discovery of cinnamon that's made her internally panic.

He drags his fingers through his unkempt hair and makes his way across the kitchen.

"I was wondering where my shirt went," he says, voice like gravel and still clinging to the last remnants of sleep.

Jefferson stands behind her and wraps his arms around her waist, resting his chin the crook of her shoulder. The warmth of his body sends shivers down Emma's spine in a very, _very_ good way and she struggles not to drop the carton of cream that she's pouring into the hot chocolate.

"I'm glad you decided to stay," he tells her.

His breath his on her neck and Emma can't think of anything else but him and that damn container of cinnamon in his cupboard and the way his hands feel on her waist. Despite the fact that she can't get herself to calm down, Emma smiles. She stirs the hot liquid and her hands pause in their reach for a stick of cinnamon.

Jefferson is kissing her neck and collarbone now, and Emma lets out a gasp before venturing, "Why do you have this in your cupboard?"

He laughs and Emma revels in the sensation and sound of it against her tender skin. "I got tired of you complaining I didn't have any."

Emma makes a noise of contempt. "I did not _complain_. I mentioned it off-handedly."

"All right," he smirks. "I remembered that detail. I was trying to be thoughtful."

His lips are no longer on her skin and Emma finds herself missing the contact, a linger of heat left behind. Jefferson untangles his arms from her waist and leans on the counter next to her, arms crossed, as she places a stick of cinnamon into the mug.

"Why?" she asks.

"Are we really going to argue over what kind of spices I keep in my kitchen?"

Emma uses the cinnamon stick to stir the hot liquid and brings the mug up to her mouth, taking a sip.

"No," she replies. "I just…wanted to know why you'd do that for me."

Jefferson is smirking again and Emma wishes he would stop because he doesn't understand what that expression and the container of cinnamon sticks is doing to her all at once. He shakes his head in disbelief.

"Emma," Jefferson says. She'll never get used to the sound of her name the way he says it. "What is this? Why do I need an excuse to do something nice for you?"

Emma sips from the mug again. "You don't," she apologizes. "It's my fault. I'm being…me. I really wish I could get past all of this. I'm not used to it. I'm sorry."

Jefferson slips one arm around her waist again. "I don't understand how someone like you could go through life without having someone who cared for you, who wanted to make you happy. Who _loved _you."

"I'm a hard person to love." Emma tells him.

She cradles her mug in her hands and leans her back against the counter. Jefferson retracts his arm and settles against the center island, one hand tucked into his jeans pocket. He has a thoughtful expression on his face and watches her as she drinks her cinnamon-and-chocolate concoction.

"I don't see it," he responds after awhile.

The mug pauses halfway up to Emma's mouth. "See what?"

"It's not hard for me to love you, Emma," Jefferson clarifies. The four letter word makes her heart hammer against her chest, her palms to sweat. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "It's difficult for you to open yourself up to allow someone to love you. And how can you, if you've never truly felt it from another person?"

Jefferson steps in front of her and places his hands on her hips. His gray-blue eyes look into her own and what she finds in them is the epitome of what she thinks that four letter word should be. This time, Emma doesn't look away.

"It's not easy to love me, either," he admits, "but what I feel for you…it's _real_. I swear it is. I just want you to trust me and believe me. I care about you. I do little things like leaving cinnamon in the cupboard because all I want is to put a smile on your face. I just wish you could see that you _deserve_ to be loved. And that there's someone right in front of you who wants to show you what it's like."

Emma's eyes sparkle and well up with tears that won't be shed. "You…love me?"

She's breathless and the words come out in a near whisper. She doesn't know whether to be terrified or overwhelmed, but the very thought of it fills her chest with emotions she hasn't encountered before. Emma sets the mug of cinnamon hot chocolate on the counter beside her, never breaking eye contact with Jefferson, whose hands are still massaging her hips.

Jefferson does that lazy, gradual smirk he knows is capable of making Emma's face blush in a way he finds endearing.

"I do," he answers, sweeping a stray blonde curl out of her eyes, "I love you."

Emma lets a couple of tears slide down her cheek and smiles at him—really, genuinely smiles—and presses her lips to his, one hand tangling into his messy hair. Her other hand is splayed against his bare chest between the two of them, his heart picking up its pace beneath her fingers. Jefferson returns the kiss, one hand leaving her hip to caress her cheek. When they finally break apart, each of them gasping for breath, Jefferson rests his forehead against hers for a moment. He leaves a kiss there, and Emma feels the heat of it linger, spreading warmth throughout her body.

"I think I can learn to like the taste of cinnamon," Jefferson declares. "It has its perks."


End file.
